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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665669">the time that was very (and other never-ending sentences)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic'>Jakowic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Elijah Kamski &amp; Gavin Reed are Siblings, M/M, Slow Burn, grand theft auto (actual auto theft), illegal fighting and gambling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:15:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,610</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665669</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gavin Reed, professional street-rat and juvie kid, cuts a deal with his probation officer. He hikes his sorry ass up to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting once a week, takes up boxing to “let his aggression out”, and stops pick-pocketing old ladies in exchange for, oh, you know, freedom and basic human rights.</p>
<p>He wasn’t really counting on an android volunteering at the gym, and he wasn’t really counting on the android’s charming smile, his clumsy attempts at friendship.</p>
<p>Fuck. He misses prison.</p>
<p>(AU)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the time that was very (and other never-ending sentences)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>all that's changed in this AU is that Elijah Kamski was born a decade earlier and started CyberLife sooner, which makes some of the human characters younger but all the D:BH events on the peaceful route remain unchanged, and Carl Manfred is alive. Gavin was born in 2002, so this takes place around 2018-2020s.</p>
<p>disclaimer: it is unlikely anything about my Detroit geography or assumptions about the prison/release system are accurate. *you also have to pretend weed is illegal in michigan</p>
<p>(the fanwiki says that Elijah graduated at 16y old. i'm choosing to pretend he graduates at 24 like a normal - but very smart - person with a PHD, which makes him around 31 during this fic)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s in the downtown youth admissions office, waiting to see Kiara when Desmond finds him. He knocks against Gavin’s shoulder, hard, as he passes Gavin in the line to Kiara’s office on his way out.</p>
<p>“Hey, dipshit,” he says. Gavin sneers.</p>
<p>“Original. You got a black eye or something? You fuck up your coordination, or you tryin’ to start shit?”</p>
<p>“Shut the fuck up,” Desmond says, pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket. “Silas was havin’ a hard time findin’ you. Said if I saw you down here, to give you your assignment,” he gives Gavin a nasty grin. “Looks like you got deadshift with Colin again.”</p>
<p>Gavin hisses between his teeth. “Goddamnit,” he mutters, snatching the paper from Desmond. </p>
<p>Silas always has him run deadshift, the fucking prick. It’s like he wants to kill Gavin, not that he <em> can, </em> or <em> should </em>because Gavin is the only competent person in Silas’ entire Circus full of idiots. At least Colin will keep him company, not that Colin is any good at running deadshift or doing anything, but, well. He’s nice. </p>
<p>“What’re you still doing here?” Gavin snaps at Desmond. “Fuck off.”</p>
<p>Desmond shoots him one last grin and saunters away. </p>
<p>There are two kids in front of him, and one behind. The kid behind him is wearing earbuds, clearly not listening, eyes dead to the world and the two in front didn’t seem to be listening in at all. Cool. Gavin braces his shoulder against the wall to his right, looking at all the stupid assorted posters the youth admissions counselors put on the walls.</p>
<p>Places like this, they’re always so hopeless. Maybe not to the naked eye, but Gavin can see it. The waiting room behind him is half-full with unwanteds, maybe near-homeless teenagers, or gangbangers, or druggies. Surrounding them are posters with phrases like “Always Strive For Excellence!” or “You Got This!” or “Advancement” stamped under an arbitrary picture of an animal. Others are What To Do If You Think Your Friend Has A Red Ice Problem posters, college admissions for dropouts, or adverts for prospective shelters for the unsalvageable ones.</p>
<p>Gavin sniffs, wipes his nose with his hand. He likes Kiara, but there’s nothing this place has to offer, with the orange plastic chairs, and the backrooms full of almost-qualified “teachers” trying to save the hollowed-out poor youth of Detroit. Gavin’s already certain where his life will go: Silas’ Circus, and nowhere else. You don’t step out of Silas’ Circus.</p>
<p>His turn.</p>
<p>Kiara’s office is nice. It’s tiny and lit warmly. There are leafy green decals on the brown walls, framed pictures of kids in graduation outfits, scribbled drawings from toddlers, and posters with hotlines for every imaginable problem. Her desk has her computer, framed pictures of her family, and a Shrek action figure.</p>
<p>She’s wearing a blue pantsuit, and her hair is tied up, and there’s a silver butterfly pin stuck in her brown curly hair. She is, as usual, completely immaculate. Gavin always feels self-conscious in front of Kiara, he’s hyper-aware of his dirty, cracking jordans, his threadbare skinny jeans, his stained Brooklyn Monsters hoodie. At least he’s got the green snowcap to hide his unruly haircut.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he says, dropping onto the orange plastic chair like a ton of concrete.</p>
<p>“Hey yourself,” she responds, still typing away on her computer. “Give me a sec, I’m just finishing up this email.”</p>
<p>“Fantastic,” Gavin responds. He’s not sure why he’s being a dick.</p>
<p>He looks up at the ceiling, begins to contemplate the shape of the water stains, fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist, turning the face of the bracelet over and over again. Shit, did he remember to put up the ladder to the fire escape?</p>
<p>“All right,” she turns to him and gives him a winning smile. Gavin isn’t moved. “How are you?”</p>
<p>He shrugs. “Whatever. Am I still on academic probation?”</p>
<p>Kiara sighs. “Look, Gavin. You’re such a bright kid, you’ve got so much potential. I don’t see why you’re so adamant about throwing your future away. I know you can thrive if you just put a little effort in. You could be so much, you could become something amazing. You could get into some of the top colleges in the country if you just tried a little more. Based on your record, I can tell that you don't believe you can do it, but I know you can. Let me help you have a good future.”</p>
<p>It’s so quiet in the room, a pin could drop down the hall onto the carpeted waiting room, and Gavin would hear it. Adults don't get it. They never will, no matter how much they think they remember or no matter what they wish they could understand.</p>
<p>“That was a long way to say ‘yes’,” Gavin eventually says. Kiara stays silent.</p>
<p>He’s heard that a lot, these days. His teachers, his dad’s wife, his older half-brother, all of them quietly despairing over what a disappointment Gavin is. It’s probably a good thing his mom’s too much in a drugged up stupor over ninety percent of the time, otherwise, he’d be getting shit from her too. </p>
<p>Sometimes you’re poor, sometimes your dad cheats on his wife with your mom and has you, sometimes your mom gets addicted to heroin, and cocaine, and becomes a hooker. Sometimes you’re the only functioning member of your family. That’s the way life goes. Shit ain’t fair.</p>
<p>He feels irritation building in him. “I don’t need this shit. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need your fuckin’ pity. I just need to be told: yes or no, am I still on academic probation?”</p>
<p>Kiara’s perfect mouth downturns into a perfect frown, and look, even her wrinkles are perfect. “Gavin, you know why your counselor recommended you start coming to my office,” the silence between them stretches again. “I understand your home life might be challenging, but I want to help you. I can’t do that if you put up a roadblock every time I try. I’m going to make you an offer, here and now: take the G.E.D. program. It’s free, and I’ll spot any expense it may require.”</p>
<p>Gavin stands. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He probably won’t. </p>
<p>He leaves the room, flipping the hood of his hoodie over his snowcap with his shoulders, stuffing his fingers in the pockets and shoulders out the door, and down the stairs into the threshold of the building.</p>
<p>It’s raining outside. Fucking excellent. He walks to the bus stop three blocks away and goes home to his shitty Detroit apartment.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At 11:30 pm, Gavin takes the bus to the upper north side of Detroit, which is to say the rich side, the fancy side, the good side. He gets off at fifth and Chamberlain and walks ten blocks up a narrow alley to Tiara’s. There’s a huge line, and the lights are up and flashing and Gavin can hear the incessant EDM beat from his spot on the sidewalk. </p>
<p>The bouncers give him a look as Gavin surveys it, it could be mistaken for the outside of any club at all, but when Gavin raises his arm and his sleeve slides down to reveal his bracelet, the bouncers step aside to let him in. </p>
<p>“Are you fucking kidding me?” someone from the outside yells.</p>
<p>It’s hot, and it smells terrible. Gavin slides along the edges of the club, avoiding the dancing throng of people as best he can. As always, a few curious hands trail on his arms, his shoulders, but he ignores them. He kicks open the third door on the side marked STAFF ONLY in white, so it looks neon purple under the black lights and strobe. </p>
<p>The door shuts behind him with a heavy click. Instantly the noise of the club is drowned out, only the faint bass and the hum of the fluorescent lights dangling above are left. He heads down the hall, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his black bomber, boots echoing with every footfall. He turns left at the junction, and shoulders open the door immediately to his right. </p>
<p>He comes to a darkened workshop, tools, and half-finished machines lying about on various sized workbenches. </p>
<p>It’s obvious that Tiara’s, if you know enough about 40’s wartime infrastructure and modern-day bigwigs, is surreptitiously connected to Al’s Motors via underground tunnels, cleverly hidden back rooms, and the richest man in Michigan. </p>
<p>Gavin works for him.</p>
<p>In the center of the garage, twelve people are standing in a circle, lit by the workshop lights from above and the headlights of Desmond’s truck. The garage door is lifted, and Gavin can see the rain-slicked street of a sleepy Detroit. Desmond’s sitting on the hood of his truck, one leg on the headlight, cigarette dangling from his lips.</p>
<p>“Vinny!” Montgomery Silas says upon seeing Gavin’s shadow. There’s a digital clock above the door to the front of Al’s, and it reads exactly midnight.</p>
<p>“Silas,” he says, stepping into the circle. Richelle, David, Carl, Desmond, Colin, and other of Silas’ unfortunates are here tonight. It’s the graveyard handout, and Gavin wants to know who the lucky ones are tonight.</p>
<p>“All right, now we’re all here, let’s do the rundown. Richelle and Desmond, Carl and Xav, Fil and Alan. Back by two, do not fuck up,” Silas punctuates every word of his warning with a jab of his finger at each team, “and give me some cars.”</p>
<p>Desmond hops off the hood of his truck and hits Gavin in the shoulder with his own as he passes to look at the map on one of the workbenches, the one that Richelle is rolling up. Gavin rolls his eyes and crosses the floor to where Colin is sitting on a pile of tires. Gavin drops onto one of the big trucker wheels next to him. </p>
<p>Besides Colin, everyone here is a couple of years older than Gavin and has more experience than him. He’s been at Silas’ for a year, but he’s brought in more money than every idiot in this place. It’s probably why Desmond is such a dick to him.</p>
<p>“We’re paired up tonight,” Gavin says, stretching his arms behind his head. Colin glances at him, then back to Silas. </p>
<p>“Do you think he’s ever gonna stop deadshifting us?”</p>
<p>Gavin shrugs. “Why would he? We’re the only ones good at it.”</p>
<p>“Careful,” Colin says with a giggle. “Desmond might hear you and go ape.”</p>
<p>Gavin shoots Colin a grin. There are few things in life left to enjoy, but this is always one of them. Out of all the terrible things that have come out of Gavin’s life, Colin’s friendship has been one of the good things.</p>
<p>They don't usually talk much, as they wait for the graveyard to end. The graveyard hours are from midnight to two, and then the next shift is Gavin’s. It’s called the deadshift because it happens when night employees head home and early risers awake. If you get caught, you’re dead. </p>
<p>Gavin spends the hours waiting at Al’s fucking with the cars the guys leave out, sometimes fixing them, or sparring with The Chairman, who isn’t here tonight. The Chairman is Gavin’s fighting coach, hired by Silas to make sure Gavin didn’t die in the pit, and so far it’s been okay. Gavin likes him, as old and mean-tempered as he is.</p>
<p>Today, he stays on the tire-pile, thumbing through the electronic library on his phone, searching for a book to keep him company. He lands on a Chuck Palahniuk, and turns on some jazz and settles in for three hours. The average is five cars during the graveyard shift between all three teams -- Gavin can get five an hour between him and Colin. Humblebrag, sure, but the least these idiots could do is <em> try.</em></p>
<p>Desmond kicks him when he passes the pile on his way to report to Silas. Gavin startles, looks at the clock and sees it’s two exactly already. He stands, walks over to Silas, Colin on his heels. </p>
<p>“You two take Medellin Park and the East Row,” he tosses Gavin a rolled up list of addresses. “Don’t fuck up,” he looks at Colin as he says it, low and mean. Colin nods, fists curled up at his sides.</p>
<p>They get in Colin’s black sedan and head to Medellin Park. The rain has stopped and the sky outside is still mercifully dark. The city twinkles against the black sky, beautiful and disjointed in the way that Gavin recognizes in himself. He puts his hand in his pocket, rubs his finger against the plastic edge of the baggie.</p>
<p>He and Colin park at the end of one of the streets in the neighborhood. Gavin climbs out of the car and starts to walk. The key is to look for older cars because they have shitty locks, shitty security systems and are easier to soup up for the racetrack or scrap for parts. He finds a car from the 80s, and presses a key to the corner of the window and forces it open, reaches in and unlocks it. </p>
<p>He slides into the driver’s seat and unhooks the bottom panel under the steering wheel. The easiest way to start a car is under the hood, fiddling with the engine with a screwdriver, but it’s less suspicious to jimmy-rig the starter. Gavin fiddles with the wires, fingers sliding against the rubber coverings until he catches the right one and yanks it. The car starts right up and purrs under Gavin’s hands.</p>
<p>He heads down the block and pulls over onto the road again, shutting off the headlights. He checks the rearview mirror, making sure Colin isn’t anywhere near. He takes out the plastic baggie in his pocket and crushes up the red ice in between his fingers. He looks around again before he shakes the powder out onto the center console and snorts it, using a small cut up straw that he keeps in his jeans.</p>
<p>The high starts to wear off around the time that they leave Al’s, so Gavin uses these precious moments alone to recharge. The drugs are the only thing that keeps him moving through the day, as pathetic as it sounds. He hasn’t been getting much sleep between this, school, and his family.</p>
<p>He takes the car to the off-road by mile road, a few blocks away from the neighborhood he and Colin are in charge of. Andrews, one of Silas’ adult bodyguards, not a runner, gives him a look when Gavin gets out. He’s saved from a conversation by Colin pulling over and leaning out the window.</p>
<p>“It looks like shit,” he remarks.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Gavin shrugs. “People say that about me too, but I still run.” he winks at Andrews, he can’t help it. Andrews’ scowl deepens. </p>
<p>Gavin hops in the truck and they circle a couple of other blocks, searching for cars parked on the street. It’s easier to steal a car off a suburb street than anywhere else, and old cars make up nearly everything at Silas’ track. Gavin’s learned a lot in the past year about cars, the knowledge he has no idea what he’s going to do with. He rubs his hands together, warming them.</p>
<p>The ice settles in his veins, sharpens his senses, and makes everything slightly faster. Gavin bounces his leg, eyes scanning the sidestreets like a hawk.</p>
<p>“There,” he says, gesturing down one. Colin turns and parks his truck at the end of a long line of parked cars on the street. </p>
<p>Gavin slides out and slinks down the row. The one after the car in front of Colin’s doesn’t have a security system, so Gavin takes out his knife, presses it to the corner of the window and smashes it. It makes a satisfying sound, a little loud but Gavin can’t see anyone immediately reacting to it.</p>
<p>He’s reaching his arm in to unlock it when hands grab Gavin’s shoulders and drag him into a crouch. He jerks away, reaching out to smack at his attacker. It’s Colin, and he easily drags Gavin back to him and points through the shattered glass to the other side of the street. A cop car pulls up, lights flashing, no sirens. Both officers get out of the car and one of them goes to knock on the door of the house they’re parked in front of. The officer by the car has his flashlight on, and he’s scanning up and down the street. His radio crackles with something, and the officer leans in to say something.</p>
<p>“Shit,” Colin hisses, eyes widened with panic. “What the fuck do we do? Oh my god, we’re fucked. We’re so fucked. Vin, they’re right fucking there! They’re gonna see what we’re doing, then--”</p>
<p>“Shut the fuck up,” Gavin snaps, mind racing.</p>
<p>If whoever they’re talking to mentions the breaking glass, they’re gonna walk over and see what’s happened. If they both get in Colin’s car and drive past them to leave, they might catch the license plate and connect them to the car break-in. There’s nowhere to hide, and waiting only leaves too much shit up to chance.</p>
<p>“We’re fucked,” Colin mutters, breathing fast.</p>
<p>“Listen, Colin,” Gavin says, grabbing him by the shoulders, hard enough to bruise. “I’m gonna get in this car, and speed the fuck off, do some donuts, you get in your car and go back and tell Silas what happened. Hopefully, they don’t catch me but if they do…” Gavin shrugs.</p>
<p>“Vin, <em> no, </em> holy shit, you can’t fucking--”</p>
<p>“Colin, Colin. Is Silas gonna be more mad if his nephew gets arrested, or some street rat he hired on accident?”</p>
<p>“We can just wait and see if they go away--”</p>
<p>“You really wanna take that chance?” Gavin hisses, shaking him a little. Distantly, he can hear the cop knocking again, yelling <em> Detroit Police! Open up! </em>“I’m so fucking high on drugs right now, it’s gotta be me, a better story than the truth.”</p>
<p>Slowly, Colin nods, his hands sliding against Gavin’s forearms. “Okay, okay,” he says.</p>
<p>“Go,” Gavin shoves him toward the truck, and quietly pops open the door to the four-door and slides into the driver’s seat. </p>
<p>He looks toward the cops again, the gentle grey of near-dawn lightening Detroit’s streets, as the cop knocks again, shouting some more. He unhooks the bottom panel under the wheel and looks again at the cops. He sees someone opening the front door, as Gavin starts to fiddle with the wires, and his heartbeat increases tenfold. It’s a white lady in a robe, wearing a sleep cap, not good news, white ladies snitch. The cop gestures vaguely around, as Gavin’s fingers fumble on the right wire. The car doesn’t start on the first tug, and when he glances back at them, she’s pointing to Gavin’s side of the street, and when Gavin turns to look, directly at Colin’s car.</p>
<p>“Fuck!” he says, yanking again, hard. “Come on baby, start for daddy.”</p>
<p>The car comes to life under his hands. “Yes!”</p>
<p>He presses on the gas and pulls out, narrowly avoiding the car in front of him. He accelerates as fast as the car allows. Feeling reckless, adrenaline pumping, he turns tight, tires squealing as Gavin shoots back down the road, past the cop car, and hooks a dangerously wide left at the end of the street.</p>
<p>He hits the big button on the radio, hears the opening to Legend Has It, and grins at the road. He flips on the headlights as the sirens behind him begin to wail, the lights flashing as the cops race to catch him. Just until they hit the busy street, he thinks, not wanting to get shot. He takes an unreasonably wide right, pushing sixty as he does, and just barely dodges slamming into a silver SUV. He curses under his breath, spins the wheel under his control, and speeds up. </p>
<p>He’s going eighty in a residential, higher than a kite, blasting loud rap music. It looks terrible. He slides onto the main road, a couple of other cars are idling at the stoplight. Gavin blows past them, the cops hot on his tail. <em> Shit, </em>he thinks, blinking hard to get the blurriness out of his eyes. Sometimes the drugs to that to him, fuck up his coordination, his balance. He slams on the breaks, skidding on the asphalt, jerking the wheel to the side of the road violently. The front of the car jumps the curb onto the sidewalk, and Gavin finally stops.</p>
<p>He opens the driver’s door, hands up, as he tries to get his feet to work with him to stand. The cop on the passenger side is already out, halfway to Gavin, yelling.</p>
<p>“What the hell? What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands, his partner hot on his heels.</p>
<p>Gavin finally gets his feet out from under him and stands. They come up to him, one of them is older, rounder, with an unkempt beard, the other is taller, sharper, newer. The taller one is unclipping handcuffs from his belt, while his friend breathes heavily beside him.</p>
<p>“Bloodshot eyes,” he says. “You on something kid?”</p>
<p>Gavin blinks at him.</p>
<p>“My bets are on red ice,” Tall says.</p>
<p>“Oh, shit yeah,” Rotund answers. “That crap’s infested the ghettos. What else would you expect from a poor kid?”</p>
<p>The cop and his partner laugh, and Gavin joins in, a light little chuckle. He nods.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah sure. Ghetto. Poor,” he says.</p>
<p>He punches the officer in the face.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Gavin’s sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs that are standard for places Gavin frequents, staring at the cool metal of the table. The cuffs on his wrists are a little tight, and every time he shifts his hands, twiddling his thumbs, he can feel the tug on the chains on his ankles. He’s bouncing his leg, making them rattle, watching the shadows reflect off the table, wondering how much longer it’ll be.</p>
<p>Pearson, the guard for Gavin’s cell block, shifts uncomfortably. He’s standing somewhere behind Gavin’s right, watching him look at nothing. Gavin’s all restless energy -- he always has been -- but right now it’s more than that. He’s <em> waiting. </em></p>
<p>He hears the door (the <em> other </em>door, the one that leads to the outside, not the one behind Gavin that leads back into the penitentiary) open. Two sets of footsteps approach him, and Gavin looks up. There’s a man in a grey suit, with black hair and a sharp look in his eye. Standing beside him is a uniformed officer, middle-aged and fat, sporting greeting hair and a walrus mustache.</p>
<p>“Gavin Reed,” the suit says, dropping a manila folder onto the table between them. “I’m Mr Fargo, and I’m going to be your lawyer for the release hearing. This is Officer Iver,” he gestures to the uniform, who raises his hand in greeting. Gavin eyes him. “If all goes well tomorrow, he’ll be your parole officer.”</p>
<p>Gavin nods, twisting his fingers together tight. Fargo pulls out the uncomfortable plastic chair and sits down, flipping open the folder as he does.</p>
<p>“Grand theft auto, illegal drugs use, assaulting an officer and resisting arrest,” he reads. “You’re very lucky to have gotten five years -- that’s an incredibly reduced sentence, you know that?”</p>
<p>Gavin nods again. He used to wish his skin was darker, like his mom’s, just enough so that the Pinoy boys in the neighborhood would greet him with <em> kamusta! </em> Instead of <em> yo! </em>Now, he’s grateful for the stupid, tiny advantage. </p>
<p>“And with your good behavior, you’ve only been in here for three. Lucky, I’d say.”</p>
<p>Gavin sighs out, leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t want a lecture. If he did, he’d come out to see his mom when she visited. </p>
<p>Fargo spends some more time stating facts about Gavin’s court case, while Gavin watches a fly buzz around the room. It must’ve come in when they came in. Finally, Fargo sighs out, closing the file onto the table. He leans forward, surveys Gavin. His hair is growing messy and curly (it always does without gel to tame it), and he’s started to have patches of hair growing on his face. It itches and he hates it. He’s wearing the stupid orange prison jumpsuit, standard-issue white shoes that pinch him in the wrong places. Basically, Gavin looks stupid and uncomfortable.</p>
<p>“How old are you, exactly?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Nineteen in two weeks,” Gavin says. It’s the first words he’s said in a couple of days, and his voice comes out softer than he remembers it being. </p>
<p>Birthdays at Wayne County Juvenile Detention Facility aren’t celebrated, except, in the mess hall, one of the servers might give you half an extra scoop of mashed potatoes. Fargo stands to leave, and Pearson comes up behind Gavin, grabs him at the elbow, and gently begins tugging him toward the door. He catches Iver’s eye at the last second on mistake, and the man levels him one solitary, understanding, nod.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The trial passes uneventfully, Gavin sits back in his chair, bored the whole time, watching Iver on Fargo’s other side as he sits stoically, hardly even blinking once. The release courtroom isn’t like the court in movies, it's a small room in the detention center, with no windows. There are two long tables, with three chairs at the judge's table, and there chairs on the defendant's table. Facing each other, intimately, the lawyer presents his case. The three of them deliberate, then maybe Gavin will get to leave. </p>
<p>Sitting at the front table is a man Gavin doesn’t recognize, the Wayne County warden, and Pearson. Gavin hasn’t stopped bouncing his leg since he sat down. His changes rattle minutely, barely audible over the sound of the air system pumping into the room.</p>
<p>Finally, the man sitting in the center puts his pen down and folds his hands.</p>
<p>“And what about you Mr Reed?”</p>
<p>Gavin looks at him, back straightening.</p>
<p>“Why do you think you should get to leave?”</p>
<p>Gavin’s throat closes, and he blinks hard, trying to remember what he was going to say. He spent all of the night before awake in his cell, rehearsing for this moment. <em> I am very good, </em>he thinks, maybe. Something like that. His chest is a little tight, and the cuffs suddenly feel excruciatingly tight.</p>
<p>“Um,” he says. “I miss my mom.” his voice cracks a little, at the end of the word, and he feels tears start to come. He does miss her, even though she only tries to visit on Mother’s Day, and only writes him letters giving him shit for this mess.</p>
<p>The committee shifts, looking at each other. Gavin can’t find any other words, so he just closes his eyes tight and thinks about how the inside of a car smells, how his hands felt when they were slicked up with oil. When it becomes apparent that’s all Gavin’s got, the judge nods, and Fargo helps Gavin stand. They wait outside the room, flanked by android guards, which is very pointless. Gavin’s so close to freedom, why would he fuck that up by trying to escape?</p>
<p>Iver looks at him. “You got anyone besides your mom?”</p>
<p><em> No, </em>Gavin thinks viciously. He shrugs instead.</p>
<p>He thinks of the songs his cellmate used to play. He’d smuggled in a small cassette player and some tapes through the older kids, and he used to play one at night, at the lowest volume in between the guard’s rounds. <em> Come Sunday - Mahalia Jackson </em>was written on some tape stuck to it in neat, block letters. Every night for three years, on repeat, all night, and it imprinted itself on the back of Gavin’s tongue, a haunting lullaby.</p>
<p> Gavin had the top bunk through the sheer luck of being dropped off five minutes before the other guy. His name was Ortiz, and Gavin was not going to miss him at all.</p>
<p>There’s a knock on the door behind them, so the guards open the door, and they file back in. Gavin lowers himself into his seat, heart thrumming in his ears. Fuck, he’s so <em> close. </em>He wants to taste adobo again. He wants to drink his neighbor’s over-brewed tea. He wants to play basketball in the courts with the other Pinoy boys. His body is strung tight, like a bowstring right before the arrow looses.</p>
<p>The judge looks at his notes and nods to himself.</p>
<p>“Gavin Reed, you’re free to go.”</p>
<p>The energy flows out of Gavin, and the tears feel hot in his eyes, almost completely painful. He slumps forward, resting his forehead against the edge of the table, and lets himself cry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They give Gavin back his clothes. The jeans are too tight and too short now, and the shoes are a size and a half small. The Brooklyn Monsters hoodie, once oversized and down to his midthigh, fits perfectly now. He pulls the yellow snowcap over his curls and gives Pearson a grin.</p>
<p>“I’m free now, ‘droid. Imagine that. I’m fucking free.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Pearson says tonelessly. “Imagine.”</p>
<p>Gavin shoulders his way out the door, not giving a fuck that he looks stupid, because he’s wearing <em> his own </em> clothes, and he can walk to the discharge office on his own because he’s <em> free.  </em></p>
<p>The office door is a muted burgundy, with a gold placard that says DISCHARGE on it, and Gavin snickers a little, because, well, he’s still a teenager. There are windows in this part of the building, and Gavin looks out them, delighted at the sunlight and the branches full of green leaves, and the little birds he can see flitting around. Gavin grins for a moment, drinking it in, and opens the door. He spots Iver first, standing near the back of the room, away from the desk and chair where the warden and his mother are. His smile fades immediately upon seeing the rest of the room’s occupants.</p>
<p>“What the fuck are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“Gavin,” Elijah Kamski says, rising out of his chair. He’s older than the last time Gavin saw him (when he was thirteen? Elijah was just out of college then, CyberLife already half-bloomed under his hands) and his hair is longer, just past his chin, hanging in half-curls.</p>
<p>“Where’s my mom?” he demands. </p>
<p>“Lolanda is in rehab--”</p>
<p>“Mom’s in <em> rehab--? </em>”</p>
<p>“--as part of her court-mandated release--”</p>
<p>“Mom was in <em> jail</em>?”</p>
<p>“--only for a bit,” Elijah finishes. He’s holding his hands out in a placating gesture like Gavin’s a frightened animal he can calm. “She was brought in with dozens of prostitutes. The district attorney cut her a deal when she gave them a major red ice dealer.”</p>
<p>Gavin’s still standing in the doorway, staring at Elijah. He changed the world with AI at the tender age of seventeen, and everything is different now. Androids are <em> everywhere</em>, and Gavin’s been to juvie, overcome a heroin problem, and learned how to take a serious punch. He’s sick with it, all of a sudden, how <em> unfair </em>everything is, how Elijah got the father, the brains, the cushy future, and all Gavin’s got is this: half his clothes three sizes too small and an old, stained, brown hoodie. He feels it building, the fucking rage. His eyes used to blur with it, his vision gone half-dark, but then again that might’ve been the drugs. His fists clench at his sides uselessly.</p>
<p>“Well,” the warden says, breaking the awkward silence. “Mr Kamski fits the most available next-of-kin currently, and he’s signed for you. You’re free to go. Officer Iver, I’m sure you and Gavin can work out the details between yourselves.”</p>
<p>Iver nods. “Let’s go, you two.”</p>
<p>Iver walks past Gavin out the door, gently knocking his shoulder. Gavin steps aside, follows him, and doesn’t look back to see if Elijah is coming. The foyer has three walls, made up of all glass, letting sunlight stream in. There are a dozen card tables scattered about, with more shitty plastic chairs. Iver gestures to one and Gavin drops onto the chair, heavy. He’s still not used to the new length of his limbs or his weight.</p>
<p>Elijah sits down across from him. He’s got a folder. Gavin’s eyes narrow at him suspiciously.</p>
<p>“I want to see my mom.”</p>
<p>Elijah shakes his head. “Gavin,” he says, and it’s that tone, that <em> Gavin-Reed-you-suck </em>tone.</p>
<p>“Oh my fucking god!” he slams his hands on the table, standing up and pushing his chair back. “I’m a legal adult. You don’t have to pick me up or baby me, I’ll be fucking fine.”</p>
<p>“You spent the last three years of your life in prison, you’re no more an adult now than you were when you were arrested. I’m your brother,” Elijah says beseechingly. Gavin scoffs, crossing his arms. “I want to help you.”</p>
<p>Gavin takes a deep breath, imagines the smell of motor oil, tries to reign in the rage building in his veins. Elijah flips open the folder and slides it across the table to him. Gavin’s starting to develop a phobia of folders. He looks down, squinting at it, and then he feels the rage explode against the wall of his skin like fireworks.</p>
<p>“YOU BOUGHT AN APARTMENT IN MY NAME? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”</p>
<p>“Gavin--”</p>
<p>“I don’t want your fucking charity! I know daddy raised you pampered but I was taught that I should work for my own shit, and I don’t fucking like you and I don’t want your gross shitty guilt handouts!”</p>
<p>Elijah closes his eyes and inhales slowly, and exhales slowly. A breathing exercise. He’s probably going to a happy place in order to prevent murdering Gavin. He doesn’t care - he wants to have a fight with Elijah, wants to punch that self-satisfied face. Iver is looking at him, brow furrowed, radiating disappointment. It takes all of Gavin’s self-control not to stick his tongue out at the cop and whisper <em> oink-oink. </em>His bushy mustache has a distinct air of frown. Elijah opens his eyes, apparently calm.</p>
<p>“I’m not giving it to you. I’m renting it to you. You pay me what you can until you’ve returned what I spent on it, then it’s yours.” Elijah slides the deed off the folder to reveal a newspaper page beneath it. “I’ve taken liberty and circled some starter jobs that you could apply for in the area.”</p>
<p>Gavin’s jaw flexes. He looks up at Iver again, and the cop inclines his head slightly. It’s true, he’s nearly nineteen, never had a blue-collar job, been locked up for three years and no longer has a mother to support him. Gavin sighs, defeated. He slides back into the chair and looks down at the papers. Elijah pulls out a key from his pocket and slides it against the table toward Gavin. He takes it, the cool silver feels nice against the heat of his palm, the crescent shape marks left from his nails when he clenched his fist.</p>
<p>“This doesn’t mean I like you,” he warns.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Iver gives him a ride to his new apartment, mostly because he refuses to get in Elijah’s car point-blank. Iver re-lists all of Gavin’s parole parameters on the ride, but it’s pointless because Gavin’s had the list memorized since the judge said <em> Gavin </em> and <em> you </em> and <em> free </em>all in one sentence. </p>
<p>Elijah had tossed him a deeply, deeply outdated iPhone, told him to set up an email, and that he would text Gavin the address to a place tomorrow because he’d gone ahead and set Gavin up with a job interview already. Gavin fiddles with the phone now, turning it round and round and round as he watches the buildings pass by.</p>
<p>The city’s changed, a little. It’s almost imperceptible, but Gavin recognizes it in his bones. They slide away from the edge of the city, deeper into the downtown area, crossing the picket from middle-class to the grit that Gavin’s used to. The GPS directs them to a red brick apartment building that straddles the line between the neighborhoods. At least Elijah tried when he picked it out, careful of Gavin’s history and his desire not to buy a complete shithole.</p>
<p>Iver pulls the squad car over to the curb and idles.</p>
<p>“I was never good at math,” Gavin says, thinking about how he’s going to have to calculate so many more household expenses than he’s used to. “I used to just give the money I made to my mom when she was sober for a couple of hours. She took care of it then. We were on food stamps, and I did all the shopping but I’ve never…”</p>
<p>It’s overwhelming all of a sudden, it’s crushing. The sudden realization that he’s on his own completely for the first time in his life. Gavin and his mom always took care of each other, and he always knew that beyond their shared fucked-upness, beyond their fighting, through the aches and pains of poverty, they could rely on each other. He has no idea how he’s going to do this alone. Gavin feels weak, and feeling weak makes him furious. He opens the door violently and climbs out quickly.</p>
<p>“Kid!” Iver calls.</p>
<p>Gavin pauses, ducks his head back down into the car, looking at him. His eyes are watery blue, but a passable imitation of kind. Iver sort of looks like a stern grandfather type, which makes Gavin approximately zero percent interested in listening to him.</p>
<p>“It gets better,” Iver promises. It’s so empty and insincere, the platitude adults love to push at drowning kids instead of throwing a lifeline. Gavin sneers.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t stay around here too long, someone’ll key your fucking car,” he slams the door with extra force, satisfied by the bang that sounds. Almost like a gunshot.</p>
<p>Gavin turns toward the building, holding the folder and his phone in one hand and a torn slip of paper with the building code on it in the other. He punches in the code and shoves open the door with his shoulder. There’s a doorman sitting behind the counter, reading an issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine. He glances at Gavin but quickly loses interest.</p>
<p>“Um,” he says, going up to the desk. “What floor is apartment B24 on?”</p>
<p>“Third,” he says, monotone. He doesn’t even look up.</p>
<p>Gavin takes the elevator, which is rickety and groans as the doors shut like it puts the building in pain to move. It jostles as they rise, but Gavin’s never been in an apartment building with an elevator before. It’s incredible.</p>
<p>His door is eight down on the right. It’s small, and there’s a section of drywall the separates the entrance from the kitchen to the left, and there’s a living room with big windows, one that leads to a fire escape. There’s a leather couch, a rug, and television already in the living room. Gavin immediately kicks off the small shoes, which pinched his toes and hurt the ridge of his foot and shucks off the too-tight jeans, and stands in his new apartment wearing only a stupid hoodie and plaid boxers.</p>
<p>There’s a side table next to the couch, which has a remote control and a note that says <em> News is on channel 7, channel 8 has documentaries and channel 10 is stuff teens like. xo Eli. </em>Gavin scoffs, but leaves the note there, putting his phone and the folder beside it.</p>
<p>He checks the kitchen next, which has a tiny stove, a narrow counter, and an old fridge, one of the ones without a water filter. There are two cabinets above the stove, and when Gavin opens them to look, there’s a stack of plastic cups, five ceramic plates, a huge stew pot, and a wok. He shuts it, checks the cupboards underneath the sink and sees a few cleaning supplies. There’s a note on the fridge in incredibly neat block letters.</p>
<p>
  <em> Gavin - </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> We have taken the liberty of providing you a week’s worth of groceries. After that, if you have not already found a job, you may contact us using your provided phone for more. There are various added comforts around the apartment, such as: cooking supplies, eating supplies, entertainment, clothes, bath towels, toiletries, books, and one laptop. We hope you find all of this satisfactory. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> As this is considered part of the apartment, there is no additional cost to your rent. </em>
</p>
<p>Underneath all that, there’s a scribbled note in Elijah’s handwriting. <em> All for you, love u </em>with a little heart next to it. Gavin leaves the note, doesn’t bother checking the inside of the fridge, and turns down the short hall, and immediately to his right finds the bedroom. There’s a tiny silver laptop sitting on the twin bed, which has a heavy blanket Gavin recognizes from the room at his old house, a pillow, and a small dresser on the opposite side.</p>
<p>The first drawer has underwear and socks, the second has shirts and pants. The third one is empty. Gavin doesn’t bother trying the clothes on, he has a feeling Elijah got it all perfectly. At the opposite wall, there’s a small closet cut into the wall. Gavin opens it. There are sticky notes stuck to the clothes. Two of them say <em> suit - for interviews, </em> and one says <em>winter coat, </em>and it’s the leather bomber jacket Gavin thought was lost in evidence. There are some dress shoes and Air Jordans at the bottom of the closet, along with a pair of yellow galoshes with <em>For your aesthetic </em>stuck on them. </p>
<p>Suddenly he’s so fucking exhausted. He takes off the yellow snowcap, drops it onto the bedroom floor, and pushes his hand through his unruly hair. He tries to decide if he wants a shower or just to die, and he decides against the shower. He puts the laptop on top of the brown dresser and collapses into bed, not even bothering to get underneath the sheets.</p>
<p>It’s his first night free, and Gavin doesn’t even celebrate, he just lays down in bed and lets his heartbeat slow, his heavy eyelids slide shut. There’s something he’s probably forgetting, he thinks. It’ll have to wait.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wakes at six a.m., his body still operating on juvie time. He sits on the bed for a moment, his bare legs cold, his feet ice. His mouth tastes warm and gross, so he goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth, wiping the grime away from his tongue. He looks into the mirror, his unruly curls, and the patchy stubble that makes him itchy. His face is all at once familiar and distant, his eyes don’t read the same way they used to when he looked in the mirror. He’s grown, and he looks less… like a junkie.</p>
<p>He searches under the sink for a razor and shaving cream, solves the beard problem, and looks contemplatively at the shower. Sighing and deciding against it, Gavin leaves the bedroom and wanders into the kitchen. He sees the shitty iPhone on the side table and picks it up. The battery isn’t drained yet, and the screen lights up with a message from Elijah. Gavin puts the phone back down and opens the fridge, looks at all the stuff. There’s bread in here, for some reason, and Gavin makes a face at it, yanking it out. He finds butter and a package of pre-sliced cheese. </p>
<p>He has a shitty grilled cheese for breakfast, opens Elijah’s text and stares at the suits in his closet for a long time before he sighs, shuts it, and pulls out a pair of jeans (no rips) and a green polo (fucking honestly, a polo). He checks the weather, grabs his yellow snowcap, and his jacket (it fits his shoulders now, but stops just above the waistline of his jeans, which makes Gavin minutely uncomfortable). He leaves through the front door -- when he was a kid he used to go down the fire escape on his way to school, it’s strange and thrilling to lock his apartment up behind him -- and decides his first purchase will be a key ring.</p>
<p>All the buses look different, sleeker, and they even have android compartments (marked clearly in case of any confusion), but the schedules are still the same. There are no androids in the compartment when Gavin climbs on, and he looks at it for a long moment.</p>
<p>The place is a small Asian grocery store, and the woman that the cashier fetches when Gavin says he’s here to interview for a job is about four eleven with a head full of grey curls and thin almond-shaped eyes. She must see the Pinoy in his face because she breaks into a grin and greets him in Tagalog.</p>
<p>Smiling in relief, Gavin introduces himself. “You need a boy like me around?” Gavin flexes his arms. “I can lift stuff.”</p>
<p>She titters into a laugh, smacks his chest lightly. “Yes. You can do a few test things, then if you want you come back on weekdays, nine to five. Office job but we don’t have any office around here.” she walks past him, gesturing for him to follow her through the store.</p>
<p>She gives him a grand tour, talks to him at length about the fruits. She takes him to the back, has him lug a few crates of white radishes and mangoes into the giant store fridge and jokes with him about his size, his lanky awkwardness.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes I need to cut it,” Gavin says, ducking away from her hands on his hair good-naturedly. “But, uh, ano ang inyong pangalan ginang?”</p>
<p>“Oh, oh, call me <em> Lola, </em>ngani.” she says, picking up a green apron and tossing it at his head. “You get paid fifteen dollars an hour. We do paychecks on Friday every two weeks. You need paperwork?”</p>
<p>“I can come back tomorrow with it.”</p>
<p>She nods. “Yes, do that. Bring bank information, too. No direct deposit.”</p>
<p>Gavin shrugs. He doesn’t know what that means. She smiles at him. Waves her hand.</p>
<p>“Okay, okay. Come tomorrow. Bring paperwork.”</p>
<p>“Bye, Lola,” Gavin says, waving as he ducks out of the backroom and out into the store. </p>
<p>Back at his apartment, he dials Elijah immediately. He’s pacing around his living room in his new striped socks, his jacket discarded on the nice couch, his snowcap once again abandoned on the floor. It rings three times before there’s a click, and Gavin doesn’t give him a chance to talk.</p>
<p>“Okay so I got the job at that grocery store, and they need information from me, she gave me a list on a sticky note but I don’t know if I have any of these things? I don’t have proof of an address, I don’t have a driver’s license or a social security number. I think? What even is a social security number? God, I don’t have a bank account either, what am I supposed to do?”</p>
<p>There’s a sigh, then a slight rustle on the other end. “I thought you were going to be fine?”</p>
<p>“Ugh,” Gavin growls, irritated. “Whatever, forget I asked--” he goes to hang up but Elijah sounds from the other end.</p>
<p>“No! No, no! Gavin, I’m kidding! I was joking.”</p>
<p>He stops, presses the phone to his ear again. As much as he hates it, he does actually need help. Gavin lets the silence stretch. He sighs out through his nose, closes his eyes, and massages the space between his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger, the way he used to watch his mom do. </p>
<p>“It wasn’t funny,” he says eventually.</p>
<p>“I know,” Elijah says. “I’m sorry.” he genuinely sounds it, too.</p>
<p>“Okay, so I need all this shit, and I don’t know what to do or where to get it.”</p>
<p>“Have you checked under your bed?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“There’s a computer bag under your bed. It has folders of important documents I got from your house after Lolanda got picked up. It’s also got a phone and laptop charger in it.”</p>
<p>Gavin sighs. Of course. Under the fucking bed. Where all normal and rational people put documents.</p>
<p>“Lolanda opened up an account in your name ages ago. It’s only ever been subscribed to the New Yorker online, and has a moderate amount of savings and pretty okay credit, for a nineteen-year-old,” Elijah continues, then, “Do you mind? I’m on the phone. Personal matter.”</p>
<p>Gavin slides his sweaty palm against his jeans and has to fight the urge to hang up on Elijah. There’s a lump in his throat that’s blocking him from saying something or being nice. Gavin closes his eyes, tries to stop tears from forming. He misses his mom.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Gavin eventually gets out, every syllable dragged kicking and screaming from his mouth.</p>
<p>“Yeah of course,” Elijah says, disturbingly upbeat. “What are brothers for?”</p>
<p>Gavin scoffs immediately. “We’re barely family,” he snaps and hangs up.</p>
<p>So, he has a job. He has a home. He has a start.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gavin and Iver meet Thursdays, and they meet at Starbucks that’s closer to the police station Iver works at than anywhere near where Gavin spends his time. Every Thursday, Iver beats Gavin to the Starbucks and is sitting at a table in plainclothes with two drinks. He always makes Gavin piss in a jar so he can take it to run a drug test, so Gavin stops smoking weed at midnight on Tuesdays. It’s very one-two-three, like the steps of a dance.</p>
<p>It's Sunday morning and Gavin is in the downtown Michigan meat market, half-looking for Marco Ruiz, half looking for easy targets. Something he learned about when he was in Silas’ Circus was having sticky fingers. Something he got better at in prison.</p>
<p>Marco finds him when he’s leaning half-behind a lady examining lamb thighs, slipping her wallet out of the top of her purse, sliding it into the sleeve of his jacket. Marco grabs him by the shoulder, and Gavin resists the instinct to reach up and snap his wrist.</p>
<p>“Vinny, what’re you up to?”</p>
<p>“Lookin’ at lamb,” Gavin sidesteps away from him. “You have what I asked for?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Marco looks around. He leans in, lowering his voice. “Couple a’ joints. I’m good on my word. You good on yours?”</p>
<p>Gavin rolls his eyes. “Follow me,” he says, and steps into one of those public bathrooms. He leaves, fifty dollars lighter and five joints heavier. He slides back into the market, tapping one of the joints against his thigh, the fingers of his other hand sliding against the lighter in his pocket. He reaches the end of the market and leans against a wall near the opening of an alley. He lights up the joint and inhales easily, the scratch of the smoke familiar against his throat, the smell of it making his eyes water.</p>
<p>He feels a hand clamp around the back of his jacket, dragging him into the alley. Gavin shouts and struggles as he’s shoved up against the brick wall, the joint plucked out of his fingers.</p>
<p>“Seriously?” Iver says, dropping the joint and stomping on it. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re still doing drugs?”</p>
<p>Gavin shoves him a few steps away and pushes away from the wall. He sneers at Iver. “Weed is barely a fucking drug. You know I used to do heroin, right? Not the pussy stuff, either. Weed is nothing.”</p>
<p>Iver rolls his eyes. “Arms up, smartass. You have anything else I should know about?”</p>
<p>Gavin thinks about the dozen or so wallets he’d taken. “No,” he says, and Iver begins to frisk him.</p>
<p>He sighs. “All right, we’re going for a ride.”</p>
<p>Gavin’s in the back of Iver’s squad car, arms crossed petulantly. As Iver sorts through all the wallets on the trunk. Gavin’s weed is sitting on the center console and Gavin can’t reach through the little window to grab it because of the bars, and the doors are locked so he can’t leave. Iver must be done with the wallets because he walks around to the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, drops a bag of wallets onto the passenger seat and starts the car.</p>
<p>Gavin scowls out the window. They’re probably going to his precinct and they’re gonna process Gavin and he’s gonna go to actual prison. For weed. And some petty theft. Fucking great. He pictures the disappointed look on Lola’s face and scowls harder, exhaling through his nose.</p>
<p>Iver sighs. “I don’t like this either,” he says. Gavin looks toward the front, and Iver is looking at him in the rearview mirror. “It makes me look like an idiot.”</p>
<p>Gavin snorts. “I could’ve told you that,” he mutters.</p>
<p>Iver’s jaw flexes, his eyes flicking from the road to Gavin, from Gavin to the road.</p>
<p>“You know…” he trails off, hesitant. “You’re a good kid. I see it in you.”</p>
<p>Gavin tilts his head.</p>
<p>Iver meets his eyes in the mirror, resolute. “I’ll cut a deal with you.”</p>
<p>“I’m listening,” Gavin leans forward.</p>
<p>“I see this… rage in you. Hatred. It’s common in a lot of kids with your sort of history and especially after juvie. An old buddy of mine runs a place where you can learn to channel that energy.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Gavin says, dragging out the a sound, skeptical of anyone that associates with Iver. </p>
<p>“I’ll let this shit slide if you promise me you’ll stop doing it, if you go to Hank’s gym and,” Iver pulls a blue coin out of his pocket and presents it to Gavin through the little window.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” Gavin asks suspiciously.</p>
<p>“Five-year chip,” he says, putting it back and taking a right turn. “Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s good to have people that relate to you, to talk about it.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“If you want me to let this go you have to stop doing drugs and stealing, you have to go to NA meetings, you have to start going to Hank’s.”</p>
<p>Gavin grits his teeth. He hates the idea of anyone knowing about his drug use, about jail, about anything. Elijah has pried a bit, but Gavin usually just hangs up on him, and he only calls Elijah when he absolutely needs something. He doesn’t even know if there are words to describe what he’d gone through, how far he’d fallen into his old life. How much he aches for it. </p>
<p>(In his dreams Colin slides up to him, puts an arm around Gavin’s waist and kisses him, slides his tongue into Gavin’s mouth and fucks him on the tire pile in Al’s. The smell of the motor oil mixes with the feeling of the red ice dissolving on his gums, the feeling of popping the lock on an old car, of using a flathead to coax the engine into a rumble.)</p>
<p>“Fine,” he says, the word coming out from somewhere deep inside him. He fucking hates prison.</p>
<p>“Good choice, kid,” Iver says, taking a left.</p>
<p>Gavin feels murderous.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hank’s gym is located on the rougher side of Detroit, four blocks from Gavin’s apartment. It’s unassuming from the outside, and a neon-blue sign that says Briman Boxing and Gymnastics, which seems like a strange mix. Gavin stares at it suspiciously from his spot on the sidewalk, letting the car door slide through his fingers and bang shut. It’s starting to rain, that pre-storm drizzle that leaves a scent in the air and a few droplets on the concrete.</p>
<p>“Come on, kid,” Iver says, walking past him and up the stairs. He holds open the door expectantly and Gavin reluctantly follows him inside.</p>
<p>It is exactly what it says on the tin. The space is huge, a warehouse-sized building, with boxing equipment, gym equipment, and sophisticated gymnastics equipment. Whoever owns it has to have money, or at least make a lot of money. Gavin whistles, low and appreciative. He learned to lift weights in prison -- everybody does. There’s fuck-all else to do.</p>
<p>Iver’s waving someone down. “Hank! Over here!”</p>
<p>An older man, mid-forties, with a dad-bod and longish grey hair, a beard, and lines around his eyes comes over. He’s wearing the most hideous Hawaiian shirt Gavin has ever seen and sweatpants which is, in Gavin’s opinion, a federal crime of a combination. Two young men trail him. They’re clearly brothers, one of them is much, much taller, broader, and has lighter, colder eyes than the brown eyes the one flanking Hank’s left has. The smaller one is still taller than Gavin by maybe three inches, but god, the other guy is at least six inches taller. They're wearing identical outfits: black tank tops and Nike joggers, feet both bare and taped. Their hands are taped, too. The taller one has a rip in the collar of his shirt.</p>
<p>He’s nice-looking too, Gavin thinks, glancing away. You learn not to get caught staring.</p>
<p>“Adam!” he greets Iver, pulls him into one of those half-hugs. “How have you been?”</p>
<p>“Not bad, not bad,” Iver’s grinning. “You don’t look bad yourself. This place gets more impressive every time I come by.”</p>
<p>The taller of the two men is looking at Gavin, eyes calculating. Gavin can feel the look burning him, fire on his skin. Either the guy’s being a douche on purpose or he’s never met a human person before. Gavin examines his face right back, raises his eyebrow in challenge, and sees it -- the glow on the side of his face, just above his brow. An LED. Gavin thinks <em> oh, shit, </em> and Iver’s clapping him on the back.</p>
<p>“Gavin, this is Hank Anderson, my old beat cop partner. Hank, this is Gavin. He’s my new parolee.”</p>
<p>“Hi,” Hank sticks out his hand, and Gavin shakes it, resisting the urge to look back at the android. “This is Connor,” Hank gestures to the smaller android. “And that’s Rick.”</p>
<p>Gavin and Rick look at each other again, and Rick’s LED cycles from blue to yellow, back to blue. He feels sweaty under the android’s gaze, and small. He feels a lot smaller than he has in a long time. He thinks of Elijah, a hindbrain connection, Elijah must’ve designed some part of this thing. Something in Gavin’s stomach rebels.</p>
<p>“Have you ever done boxing?” Hank’s asking, and it takes a second before Gavin processes that the question is being aimed at him and that he should probably stop looking at Rick and answer.</p>
<p>“Oh, uh.” Gavin stammers. The corner of Rick’s mouth lifts imperceptibly. “Yes,” Gavin says, forcing himself to meet Hank’s eyes. “Before I was arrested. I had, uh, beginner’s training. I haven’t in a long time. But I lifted weights in juvie.” Gavin says, forcing himself to meet Hank’s eyes.</p>
<p>He chuckles. “They let you lift weights in kid prison?”</p>
<p>Gavin shrugs uncomfortably. The guards supervised the gym visits very closely, guns with rubber bullets at their hips, taser batons clenched in their hands, a controlled number of people in and out. The androids are watching him, assessing. Gavin rounds his shoulders instinctively, wanting it to stop. He’s only been out for three weeks, and lifting boxes at Lola’s has ensured that he hasn’t lost his definition, but still, he wishes they would stop.</p>
<p>“Rick, why don’t you show our new friend here how to wrap his hands and some of the punching bags?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Hank,” Rick says, LED circling. Gavin watches it without meaning to. “Right this way.”</p>
<p>Gavin follows Rick, glancing back at Iver for a second. He nods minutely. There are a bunch of other kids sitting around on benches, on mats, stretching, and talking. There’s a tiny girl in a bright, turquoise leotard doing back springs on the spongy gymnastics floor. Gavin watches her, impressed by how high she flings herself into the air, how many twists she manages before she touches the ground again.</p>
<p>“You can take off your jacket here,” Rick says, gesturing to a bench beside one of the two boxing rings.</p>
<p>Gavin shrugs off his jacket and takes off his snowcap. Before prison, he kept it short and gelled it as best as he could, flattening it. Not a lot of people know that his hair curls messily. He runs an anxious, self-conscious hand through it. Next to the textbook definition of gorgeous, Gavin just wants to pass as “not that sweaty”.</p>
<p>Rick looks him up and down.</p>
<p>“You can’t work out in jeans and a sweatshirt,” he says.</p>
<p>“Uh,” Gavin fingers the hem of his hoodie. “I didn’t exactly bring a change of clothes.”</p>
<p>He’s trying to think of a way to get out of this, so he doesn’t embarrass himself in front of this state-of-the-art killing fighting machine. </p>
<p>(Gavin remembers being thirteen and meeting Elijah for the first time because Elijah had wanted to meet Gavin, in the midst of Elijah’s parents’ crumbling marriage. He’d taken Gavin and his mom over to Colbridge’s lab, showed them the naked bones of an android’s body.</p>
<p>“That’s for the engineers,” Elijah had said, walking past it dismissively. Gavin had stared at the wires, the tubes, the blue pump, and the liquid flowing through the open chest cavity of a headless prototype. “The <em> real </em>magic is in here.”</p>
<p>He’d opened a door to a small office with a large computer bank and a monitor, sitting dark on the dest. The room was stuffy, the only light filtered in through the half-closed blinds of a tiny window. The computer bank was humming, almost like the sound of someone’s breath. There were sheets of paper with scribbled notes of code on it scattered about, random sticky notes with patches written on them stuck to strange places on the wall.</p>
<p>“This was my first AI,” he said proudly. “Her name is Chloe.”</p>
<p>The screen had lit up, and code started filtering across the black background. <em> She’s listening, </em>Gavin had thought. Thinking, considering.</p>
<p>“Elijah?” a pleasantly feminine voice sounded from the speakers. “Is that you?”</p>
<p>“We copied her consciousness and developed a synthetic robotic body that could hold something like this, something that could maintain and create the processing power needed to keep her alive. Thus: the first android. She passed the Turing test on live television,” the fondness in Elijah’s voice was palpable, a physical thing. “She’s the first thing CyberLife ever created and sold.”</p>
<p>Gavin’s mom had slid her hands over his shoulders, pulling him closer to her and away from Elijah, holding tight. CyberLife had only been around for eight years, but androids were slowly becoming more and more affordable, AI development increasing further every few weeks, robotics designs gaining more and more ground.</p>
<p>“We’re going global,” Elijah had said, with a reverent air.)</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to be less than in front of something designed for perfection. Rick’s ignoring him, walking away toward the front desk that Gavin hadn’t noticed earlier. Gavin follows him, unsure what else to do. Rick passes the desk and goes through a little door in the back. Gavin hesitates, looks around for Iver. He and Hank are still talking near the entrance, Connor standing beside them, watching with his head tilted.</p>
<p>Rick reappears with an outfit identical to his own folded perfectly. Gavin presses his hands against the rough grain of his jeans, tries to come up with a viable excuse.</p>
<p>"Erm, it's, uh. It's been a while since I've boxed," is what comes out of his mouth.</p>
<p>Rick shakes his head. "That shouldn't be a problem. Here," he presses the clothes into Gavin's hands. "Change."</p>
<p>Gavin looks around at the semi-crowded gym for a locker room. "Uh. Here?'</p>
<p>Rick's LED flashes. "Oh. You are uncomfortable. You can use the office room."</p>
<p>Gavin makes his escape quickly, clutching the clothes. Acting like this is probably making it worse, but Gavin can feel it, that need to not look stupid, to impress someone he finds attractive. He wants to curl into a ball because of course -- of course, there’s something out there so tailor-made to his tastes, someone so surface-level appealing, and it’s been created by his goddamn <em>brother</em>. Gavin is going to have words with god.</p>
<p>He comes out of the office, his rumpled clothes clutched in his hand. They go back to the bench, and Rick takes a roll of tape out of nowhere. He gestures for Gavin to sit, and kneels between Gavin's legs. Gavin's heart climbs into his throat and blood starts to rush to his ears. He's never done anything with another guy, and prison doesn't exactly make a friendly environment for budding teenagers, but the thought has always been there, constant and nearly oppressive in its intensity. Rick takes one of Gavin's hands and begins to wrap it.</p>
<p>"You know," he says conversationally, while Gavin tries not to explode from the mere touch. "Women often find big hands attractive."</p>
<p>Gavin swallows and tries not to say <em>well your hands are big, </em>and just flexes the fingers that Rick isn't touching. He works efficiently, gently and so carefully.</p>
<p>"Your hands are fairly large, which means that statistically, you will have little trouble finding a mate," Rick looks up at him. "And, of course, you have high potential to be extremely proficient at boxing or other martial arts. I would recommend you try knife sparring."</p>
<p>Rick reaches for Gavin's other hand, and he thinks, rather faintly, <em>am I being flirted with right now,</em> relinquishing his hand easily. No one has ever flirted with him like this -- all the girls that have ever done it did it rather blatantly, and smoothly. This is awkward, this is robot flirting.</p>
<p>Rick works the tape around his wrist, first, then he starts wrapping Gavin's fingers, his knuckles. Rick trails his fingertips in an almost caress, a slightly suggestive touch. Gavin thinks he might be imagining it as Rick continues methodically.</p>
<p>"Strength will not be an issue for you -- I see you've retained body mass. Using that strength, that's what we'll be working on." Rick finishes wrapping Gavin's right and straightens, stepping away.</p>
<p>Rick leads him over to one of the punching bags. Gavin's head goes up automatically to look for Iver. They're still talking, Hank's head thrown back in a tableau of joy. Both Iver and Connor are watching him, small half-smiles on their faces. Gavin rounds his shoulders, looks back to Rick and the bag.</p>
<p>"Show me a punch."</p>
<p>Gavin hears The Chairman in his head: <em>feet apart, shoulders loose, hands up. </em>The first thing you learn in the pit is how to punch. If you don't, someone who does know will demonstrate rather quickly. Gavin remembers sparring with The Chairman but that was nothing compared to the violence of the pit. Gavin hits the bag, a quick strike that makes it swing back and forth.</p>
<p>Rick makes a sound. "Right hook, please."</p>
<p>Gavin obliges.</p>
<p>"Left now, then an uppercut."</p>
<p>Gavin does. (He remembers his first night in the pit -- another of Silas' business ventures. He has kids steal cars to modify for his race track, which he runs bets on, and the fighting ring, which he runs even more bets on -- the guys at Silas' had just thrown him in there, a skinny fifteen-year-old with no idea what was happening. The man across from him was big, fit, with tattoos and scars on his knuckles. </p>
<p>The first punch to Gavin's face had rocked his teeth, bled his gums, and made him stumble. The second was to his stomach, pushing the air out of his lungs like a shot. Gavin had bent double, coughing blood from his mouth, dripping over his chin as he'd swayed, hand blindly seeking the edge of the ring. The third came when Gavin had tried to stand again, square in the face, breaking his nose, giving him a black eye. That had been fun to explain.)</p>
<p>Rick touches his lower back, pulling Gavin from the rhythm of his movements. His arms aren't used to the stretch of practicing these movements any longer, and he rolls his shoulders lightly. He turns to Rick.</p>
<p>"You remember more than you think. You could start sparring."</p>
<p>"He'll have to do that tomorrow," Iver says, appearing out of thin air. "I gotta get back to the station and I'm his ride."</p>
<p>Gavin exhales out, nodding to Iver, and grabs his clothes from the bench. "I'm gonna go change," he says to Rick and Iver, looking more at Rick. "It's, uh, nice to meet you." He shifts his clothes into one arm and sticks his hand out to shake. Rick smiles at him, light eyes dancing as he takes Gavin's hand.</p>
<p>"It was lovely to meet you as well."</p>
<p>Gavin clears his throat, pulling away from Rick's warm palm. He curls his fingers into a fist, ducks his head, and walks all the way back to the little office to change. When he's done changing (Gavin leaves the borrowed clothes on the little brown desk, next to the decades outdated computer), he finds Iver waiting for him.</p>
<p>They fall in step together as they head for the exit.</p>
<p>"Well?" Iver asks. "Do you think you can hold up your end of the deal?"</p>
<p>Gavin looks over his shoulder, back to where Rick has rejoined Hank and Connor. Rick looks up at the same moment, and they make eye contact, an electric shock to Gavin's system. Rick's LED cycles from blue to yellow as they look at each other. He lifts the corner of his mouth in a tiny, private, smile. </p>
<p>He has a mole pattern on his face and neck, cupid's bow lips, and a small, untamed strand of hair that drifts over his brow. And, most importantly, he spent thirty seconds flirting with Gavin. He swallows and looks away.</p>
<p>"Yeah. I think I can manage that."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>┈〄┈</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>ano ang inyong pangalan ginang?</i> = what is your name, maam?<br/><i>call me Lola, ngani</i> = call me Grandmother, please</p>
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<p>  <a href="https://jakowic.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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